


The Loch Lomond Monster

by consultingsmartass (consulting_smartass)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Merlock, Near Drowning, Potterlock, WizardJohn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consultingsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is sent north to validate a Kelpie sighting, but ends up finding Merlock instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rubycue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycue/gifts).



> Written for [rubycue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycue) for [johnlockgifts exchange](http://johnlockgifts.tumblr.com/) for the general qualifications of “Mer/Uni/Potter/Vamp!Lock with no Hurt and Comfort/BDSM”
> 
> Not betaed, so all mistakes are my own.

“So, if we’ve got Toke and Alderton on those Forest Trolls in Kielder, all that’s left is the disembowelled corpses reported at Loch Lomond. I’d say that’s a job for you, Watson.

This week’s assignment delegation meeting at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – Beast Division has been as dull as always. John has been doodling while waiting to hear his name called, becoming a bit too absorbed in his sketch of a Thestral.

“Oi, Watson. How’s your Placement Charms?” Department Director Cuthbert Mockridge asks, unamused at John’s inattention.

John looks up unhurriedly. “Just fine, why?”

“We’ve gotten a report of a Kelpie in Scotland and need someone to go suss it out.”

 _Of course._ John chastises himself for not making the connection. The only way to deal with a Kelpie is to bridle it with a Placement Charm. Then they are relocated while harmless and docile to a more remote location, away from both Muggles and Magical folks.

Water demons always involve a bit of a danger, though. “Uh, who’s to be my backup?”

Mockridge frowns. “You don’t need any, Watson – this case seems like just a Muggle serial killer having a laugh. Unless you’ve gone soft on us?”

Chuckles rumble throughout the room, prompting John’s hackles to rise. He’s already handily dealt with Kappas and Gindylows, and a Kelpie would round off his resume of water beasts.

His visceral reaction prompts Mockridge to grin. “Didn’t think so. We’re stretched a bit thin, and you’ve done fine with class XXXX Beasts in the past.”

“Didn’t have a problem keeping that Erumpent from taking Cresswell’s arm off,” points out Royden Poke from the back. He had acted as John’s mentor during his early days.

John decides to voice the obvious question. “And if it does turn out to be a Kelpie?”

Mockridge offers a disbelieving face. “Well, then you can always call for backup.”

 _Bloody unlikely_ , John thinks. _I’d rather face a Peruvian Vipertooth all on my own before admitting to needing help from most of you lot._

 

\---⭐⭐⭐---

John sits on his rickety Department-issued cot, the contents of the case file spread out before him in a fan. A steady rain adds pleasing ambience to a less-than-pleasing set of circumstances.

Well, the loch is hardly terrible. Just rainy. The entire time he has been on the hunt for the unlikely Kelpie, John has been dodging becoming soaked through. Impervius charms only did so much against Scotland’s determination to see him soggy, acting as a stop-gap, not a permanent solution.

But inside his tent, John is comfortably warm and dry, thanks to further spell casting. And the rain definitely sounds quite a bit nicer here than it does from inside his small flat in London.

John is mostly frustrated with the lack of progress in his investigation. He has been here two days already and has little to show for it.

He set up camp the first day on one of the islands in the middle of the loch concealed from Muggles by visual and repellent charms (Muggles boating or swimming too close abruptly realize they have a burning need to use the toilet and should immediately head back to the mainland).

John had been pleased to find that the island featured an abandoned Victorian-style greenhouse used by Herbologists in the 70s, probably growing plants useful for brewing psychedelic potions. Most of the glass framing was completely gone, due to weather or shoddy spell work, but one corner was still mostly intact, so he’d cleared the area with an Evanesco and erected his tent. The front half was still exposed to the rainfall, but John had found the noise soporific, a pleasant side-effect.

A preliminary sweep of the loch and a meeting with the local law enforcement had not yielded much to supplement the information packet before him. Strangely, the sheriff had seemed unworried by the rash of eviscerations.

“Naw, we get accidents every summer. Can’t ‘elp that tourists get themselves in dangerous situations. The mess you’ve ‘eard about is just the wildlife having a go at ‘em after they fall off their boats drunk.”

John had frowned and cleared his throat. “And the fact that one of the latest victims, Elise MacKenzie, worked as a part of the wetland restoration crew for eight years, and was described by co-workers and friends as highly-dependable and unlikely to engage in reckless behaviour means nothing to you?”

The sheriff’s left eye had gotten a bit twitchy. “You implyin’ I’m not doin’ me job?”

“No,” responded John, evenly, “Just trying to find out if there is a serial killer on the loose.”

“Humph, like a serial killer would bother comin’ ‘ere. Sure, we have our share of petty crime and the occasional bit of domestic trouble, but there was only that one killer that one time. Nothin’ serial.”

“Oh?”

The sheriff had shrugged. “A dismemberment about 15 years ago. The perpetrator was caught, tried for murder, and found guilty. Since then, nothin’.”

John examines the Muggle incident report for that murder and finds that the recovered body parts were simply severed from the torso, with no bite-marks or missing organs.

Kelpies _are_ incredibly intelligent. They would be able to tell the difference between a tourist and a local, so either the Kelpie had made a mistake and hunted the wrong person, or the sheriff was actually right, and this was nothing more than a series of unfortunate accidents for those on holiday.

Of course, wildlife could be responsible for the missing flesh from the latest victims. There were several varieties of large fish (especially some massive pike – up to 50 lbs) and wading birds, as well as the local species of lamprey, which were capable of scavenging dead tissue.

There was also a local urban myth about a large crocodile that lurked about the shoreline and ate ducks. A Kelpie could easily shape shift into a crocodile (a species not native to the area) and snap up some waterfowl, then switch to something a bit more substantial, like tourists.

Except…this was the first year that there were any civilian deaths reported. In the last twenty years, there had only been three missing persons reported, all tourists, but hardly enough meat for a Kelpie. So, had a Kelpie always been present on the loch and just recently expanded its diet to include _Homo sapiens_? Or was the Kelpie a recent addition? Why would a Kelpie go to the trouble of migrating to new hunting grounds? Lack of fresh prey? Boredom? Desire to travel?

John shakes his head at his own lark. As if a Kelpie is interested in finding a new vacation spot.

Still, there are too many questions and not enough evidence.

John remembers most of the details about Kelpies from both his Defence Against the Dark Arts and Care of Magical Creatures classes at Hogwarts. Defence had mostly focused on practical spell casting, while Care of Magical Creatures had discussed the characteristics and life history of Kelpies.

_Professor Nyria Utz looks about the room. “Where can Kelpies be found?”_

_A Hufflepuff, Joshua Eytinge, raises his hand. “Deep pools, rivers, and lochs.”_

_With a nod, Professor Utz asks, “Anyone know the name of the most famous Kelpie? Even Muggles know of its existence, though most consider it a hoax.”_

_Eytinge again has the answer. “The Loch Ness Monster.”_

_“Excellent. And what is their temperament like?”_

_“Harmful, right?”_

_Professor Utz steps out from around her desk. “Well, they do rather enjoy tricking or taking humans into the waters, devouring them, and then tossing their entrails onto banks. Children are frequent victims. They go to pet the pretty horsy and find that their hands are stuck. And then it’s curtains for them._

_“But oddly enough, although Kelpies tend toward solitariness, they often seek out human companionship.”_

_John perks up at this, intrigued by the unique behaviour. Most vicious magical creatures have no interest in humans (magical or Muggle), avoidance or attack being their usual responses._

_“Now, how can we be certain that a Kelpie is a Kelpie?” asks Professor Utz._

_Ana Delaflote to John’s right offers, “You just look at it. It_ is _a giant, black horse, after all.”_

_Professor Utz tilts her head. “Well, that's only one form that a Kelpie can take. If it’s in its horse form, you should check the hooves, because they will be backwards.” She moves to the front of the room and taps the board with her wand, where an image of a massive, powerful black horse materializes and begins to run across the surface of the river. Its bulrush mane flares in and out of existence, as if the water is feeding and then taking it from the beast. “Kelpies are easily identifiable in this form. However, I must caution you – they can shapeshift. This is what makes them extraordinarily dangerous.”_

_“Can they turn into anything?” asks Eytinge._

_“Well, they tend to remain in horse form more often than not. But there is a story about a Kelpie taking human form – a folk tale from one of the Scottish Isles. In it, a woman falls in love with a Kelpie who has shapeshifted into a man, but when she realizes the man’s true nature, she steals his bridle and forces him into his true shape, which prevents him from shapeshifting into a man. She then forces the Kelpie in horse form to work for her father for a year. Once the year is up, she returns the bridle and asks the human form Kelpie if it would cease its trickery and consider marrying her. As the story goes, the Kelpie agrees and they live happily ever after.”_

_Delaflote scoffs. “Fairy tales are just stories.”_

_“Ah, but stories often imitate truth. Keep that in mind when you are in a new location and you hear a story from a local. There’s almost always some grain of truth to every story.”_

John sifts through the photos from the Muggle crime scenes and has to admit that the disembowelling is rather grisly. There are severed fingers with gnaw marks on the ends, plus the entrails washed up to shore. And then there are the series of Muggle sightings of a horse in the water. Pity that none of the Muggles had managed to snap a photo, even a fuzzy one for the tabloids.

John packs up the file and reaches for his wand. With a nonverbal _Nox_ , he extinguishes the light and drifts off. He has a good feeling about his chances tomorrow.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John is walking along the edge of his island deciding which river he will scout today, when he gets a tingling behind his left ear. He draws his wand and spins on the spot, eyes darting about, crouched, a slew of half-formed spells on his lips.

But there is nothing beyond the expected background birdsong, wind, and water noises.

John remains vigilant as he creeps toward the water’s edge. He is certain that whatever tripped his sensory trigger is located there, so he rakes his eyes over any inconsistencies in the water’s surface. The wetland vegetation makes that a challenge, providing plenty of cover for an intruder.

Despite his reputable eyesight, John sees nothing out of place. He inhales deeply, tasting the air. None of the usual smells or scents that would indicate certain varieties of beast.

Chalking it up as something that had either swum away or just his imagination playing tricks, John slowly lowers his wand and straightens up.

With one last intense searching look, he turns and walks back to his tent.

\---⭐⭐⭐---

The feeling repeats in mid-afternoon, while he is checking one of the summer’s earliest crime scenes on the mouth of the River Falloch. His wand is already in his hand (a Muggle golf ball from the nearby course had almost brained him ten minutes before), so he only has to set himself in a defensive stance and scan his surroundings.

Again, there is nothing threatening immediately visible.

 _Fool me once_ , John mutters mentally, and casts a modified _Revelio_.

The water and surrounding vegetation pulses, as if a great wind has swooped down and flattened it all at once. John watches for any movement or incongruous shapes to be revealed, but nothing moves.

Finally, he catches a pair of eyes watching him from the water’s surface about ten metres away, but they disappear immediately after he sees them.

 _Selkie?_ his mind supplies, and he frowns. Selkies tended to be grey-skinned, large-eyed, and thick. The fleeting look he had gotten read distinctively Mer – pale blue-skinned and lean. But this far north?

John sets his mouth and fires off another _Revelio_ , centred on the last location he saw the potential Mer. Kelpies were fully capable of shifting into Merpeople. Perhaps this Kelpie had just chosen the wrong creature to imitate – maybe its recent migration to the loch had left it disoriented?

Neither Kelpie nor Mer appears before John. With cautious steps because the river bank is rather unstable from all the rain (though it is thankfully not pissing down right now), John sidles up to the edge, his eyes never leaving the water. He carefully slinks down the embankment until his toes are in the water, wand still fixed on the last spot he saw the nonhuman eyes.

He ponders calling for backup for a moment, since he has now confirmed that there is some variety of class XXXX beast present.

No, best leave the calls for help when he _really_ needs them (wouldn’t want the others to come up with some sort of derogatory nickname – after all, Jerkins is still being called ‘Mucus Fritter’ months after the incident with those supposedly-rabid Flobberworms). If it is actually a Mer, then it’s not a problem. Merpeople are not violent, just ill-tempered when bothered. This one is probably just curious.

Of course, if it _is_ a Kelpie, then John is in quite a bit of danger. Fabulous.

And whatever miniscule advantage he might have had going into this encounter is gone – his wand has given him away. Kelpies know about magic and wizarding folk and will not directly approach someone wielding a wand. He supposes he could have pretended to be nonmagical, but would be impractical.

John takes a series of steps backward until his feet are no longer touching the water. Several potential plans whirl around in his head, and he discards nearly all of them immediately. Retreat would be wasteful – this may be the only chance he gets to capture the Kelpie since they are so clever and secretive. Direct attack will only scare it off. Hiding his wand or trying to find a way to conceal his identity would be idiotic.

Naturally, the most dangerous option remains. Tempting a Kelpie…that’s going to be quite the thing to explain to Mockridge when he returns.

He thinks on it for a moment more, trying to come up with a better option. _Probable death it is_ , his brain gleefully sings, and John points his wand at his clothing, changing it into a wetsuit. His shoes are transfigured next into short fins and he applies a Bubble-Head Charm to facilitate underwater breathing.

Time to entice a Kelpie.

He carefully steps into the water, dodging the shoreline vegetation and remaining vertical until the water reaches his waist. Then, readjusting his grip on his wand, John pushes off and plunges beneath the surface, inhaling instinctively.

At first, John battles with his body’s natural buoyancy, kicking hard to leave the surface and gain some depth. His ears being to build pressure and he clears them before it becomes painful.

The fact that the Kelpie or Mer is definitely nearby has not been forgotten, but orienting properly underwater necessitates undivided focus. He is simply too comfortable with land living and has always found the aquatic portions of Departmental training unpleasant.

Just as he is about settled, a large shape approaches John and he raises his wand, prepared to cast an _Incendio_. Better to disable or injure the Kelpie than risk injury to himself.

But it’s just a curious sea trout. It comes within a metre and then passes on, possibly disappointed at his non-edibility. John’s heart rate slows as it moves on, and he has to remind himself to conserve his breathing since Bubble-Headed Charms have finite periods of effectivity.

John kicks out until he is in the middle of the river channel, deep enough to avoid being clipped by any of the boats moored along the river. While he swims, he rotates his head from side to side constantly, on the lookout for any human-sized or larger shapes tracking him. The cold water currents push him downriver as he goes, and John is glad that his full-body wetsuit mostly keeps away the chill.

Eventually, John anchors himself next to a rusted Muggle pipe sticking upright in the sediment and looks about, wishing that the water were clearer. Visibility is only good for a few metres – anything beyond that and objects become distorted and indistinct. The light that reaches his position is yellowed and tiny particulates drift about in a poor imitation of falling snow.

He settles himself on the riverbed cross-legged, briefly wondering after the best method for attracting a Kelpie. Did they mainly go for flailing humans when they were underwater? Or was being in their domain temptation enough?

Trying to act more like a lure, John produces bubbles from the end of his wand and then raps on the metal pipe with his knuckles, hoping that the disturbance will be sufficient to alert the beast to his location. He repeats the actions twice more before focussing exclusively on observing his surroundings.

It only takes a few minutes before he has a nibble – a dark shape materializes in the slightly turbid water just to his right.

Out of the corner of one eye, John watches it drift toward him and then quickly back. It is much larger than the trout and appears to have limbs. He remains motionless, waiting to see if it will come back.

His patience is paid back when it approaches again, this time from the opposite side. John keeps still, watching the shape come closer than the first time. Just as its dimensions are about to clarify, it stops short, suspended in the dimness.

John tempers the instinct that demands he throw a Containment Charm – the creature needs to be at least half the distance it is right now to ensure successful capture. And he realistically only has one shot at this, so it has to be just right.

The head end of the creature moves from side-to-side, and John interprets this as consideration. Without practical experience with a Kelpie, he cannot be sure that it is not seizing him up for dinner. All the reports he has read indicated that Kelpies were quick to strike and unlikely to allow their victims to be aware of their approach. The creature’s current behaviour does give more credence to the idea that this is actually a Mer.

A loud rumble sounds from above – the motor of a boat engine starting up. The creature responds by jerking away, forcing John to quickly launch himself from the riverbed and after it down the river. At full exertion, he can just keep up with the dark silhouette.

They swim toward the river’s mouth and out into the loch. They dive deeper, nearly following the contours at the bottom of the loch. Much less light reaches to these depths, although the water is much clearer.

This pursuit continues over what feels like kilometres. John’s legs begin to burn, but he pushes on. The shape has become narrower, but he can still see the occasional flare of an arm when it changes directions. Is the beast playing with him? It remains just far enough away he cannot catch it or send a spell after it, but close enough that he can still keep it in sight.

It does not occur to John soon enough that he is being led on. The creature suddenly banks left at an extreme angle and John gets the briefest impression of two arms and a finned tail before it passes him going in the opposite direction. His manoeuvring is nowhere near as efficient (and he realizes at that moment that the creature had been holding back the entire time), so he is unable to avoid crashing into a piece of netting that suddenly materializes in front of him in the dark, spanning between two underwater ridges.

John’s legs immediately get tangled as he kicks out. The heavy netting pulls off of the ridges and drags his entire body downward. A slightly panicked _Lumos_ reveals that the bottom half of the net is weighted. It pulls him down onto a crag, and the sharp pain dislodges his wand from his hand. His distress grows as he watches the tiny light at the tip fade out and then completely loses sight of his wand altogether.

His downward descent is finally halted with a lurch. In the dimness, John sees something massive (a tree trunk, perhaps?) looming sideways directly above him. It takes him a few moments of reorientation before he realizes that he is now hanging upside down from the fallen tree, wrapped from his shoulders to his feet in the net.

 _Not looking so good, Watson_ , chides his mind.

John takes grim stock of his situation. His wand is missing and he is trapped under a heavy net at the bottom of the loch. And the exertion from chasing the creature has severely depleted the oxygen in his Bubble-Head Charm, if his straining lungs and growing headache are any indication. He approximates that he has about ten minutes left before he loses consciousness.

As John looks upward to determine the distance between his position and the surface, he sees his former quarry hovering nearby, watching. Waiting for him to expire so it can eat him, perhaps? Odd behaviour for a Kelpie.

_Why are you focussing on the stupid beast? Get your wand. NOW._

John tests the movement in his limbs and finds his legs are completely immobile, but the net around his arms still has some give. His left arm feels the least restricted, so he wriggles and flexes and pulls. It is even colder at this depth than the riverbed, and minute trembles quickly progress into full-on shivers, making progress that much more difficult.

And most troubling is that all this struggling is only using up his oxygen faster. The onset of severe hypoxia is compounded by the fatigue from the earlier chase, making his body feel weak and his thoughts scattered.

 _Come on_ , urges his mind. _Keep twisting, don’t think about anything else but getting free._

He is now cold everywhere. It’s fucking freezing. Has he ever been this cold? And it’s not just his skin, not just his eyes and ears, but his bones and his muscles and his internal organs…

Abruptly, John realizes that his left hand is floating in front of him. He blinks and then frowns, feeling thick. When had he managed that? He touches his fingers to his face and realizes that they are going numb.

_Bad news. You know what’s coming next._

Does he? There was something he needed, something he was supposed to be doing and then finding.

His other arm comes free of the net.

The net. He needs to get free of the net. Otherwise –

Otherwise what?

He inhales and feels breathless. Not the nice sort. The ‘this is a big problem’ sort.

It comes to him in a rush.

He needs to get out of the net and find his wand and get to the surface. In that order. And immediately.

 _First things first_ , helpfully supplies his brain. _Get your legs free_.

John kicks upward and pushes against the net with his hands. His legs remain stubbornly moored.

He pulls himself up the lines of the thick net until he can get a look at his legs in the low light. They appear fairly unencumbered, but there must be something that is keeping his feet stuck that he just cannot see.

Letting go of the net, John falls backwards and lets his arms hang over his head, feeling drained. As his arms straighten out, his knuckles hit something solid and smooth. John tilts his head upward to look at the bottom of the loch. It is almost completely dark.

What did he just touch?

His numb fingers struggle to feel the shape of the unknown object.

_Damn it, come on fingers, work!_

At first, all he grabs onto are smaller parts of the tree. Each time he brings up a branch, his heart sinks a little lower and the headache gets worse.

But then, his fingers come across the smooth surface again. Fumbling around the edges of it, John tries to finds some part of it to grasp, but the slippery, slightly rounded surface has no traction. Desperate, he keeps feeling around it, until his fingers encounter an abruptly jagged edge. His foggy brain struggles mightily to catch up, to process the sensory information and determine what he has found.

Fortunately, it is light enough for him to lift up. His eyes scan it, pattern recognition screaming at him, but his hypoxic state slowing the receipt of the information.

It’s a broken glass bottle.

_Good…right?_

John gazes dumbly at the find, wasting precious seconds before he realizes how exactly he can apply his new tool to getting free.

He reaches up, arms feeling like they are moving through icy sludge, and levers his body forward until he can reach the net about his feet. As quickly as he can move with his unfeeling appendages, John uses the jagged edge as a knife, sawing through the binding about his feet.

The moment the first bit of netting gives way, he can feel a bit of give when he tests his feet. His hands are fully numb at this point, and he sees trickles of blood dispersing into the water from where he is pushing into the broken edge of the bottle too forcefully.

 _Better to have no fingers than be dead_.

Two more net squares are laboriously severed. John can finally separate his knees, and with nearly the last bit of his energy reserves, he kicks out and away from the deadly net, dropping the bottle.

 _Air!_ His lungs are screaming, but his brain is stuck in a loop of the commands he had dictated to himself at the start. _Get out of the net and find your wand and get to the surface, get out of the net and find your wand and get to the surface_ his mind unhelpfully repeats over and over.

Wand, right. He needs that. For some reason. More than air. For some reason.

John swims upward just a bit, trying to find the place where his wand had been dislodged from his hand. His visibility seems to be decreasing, like clouds are rolling in. Maybe they are. Or maybe it’s just the oxygen-deprivation.

_There, right there!_

He swims toward the rock his mind has identified and checks on the side he remembers the wand falling. There is a layer of decomposing organic matter where he thinks the wand should be, so he kicks with his fins to clear it off.

 _Thank, God_.

There is his wand, a light-coloured piece of wood sticking upright underneath the decaying sludge at an angle. He reaches for it, but finds that his fingers have lost all ability to grasp.

_Come on, please!_

Trying to think quickly, because he knows that he realistically only has seconds remaining before he drowns, John manages to shove the wand up the sleeve of his wetsuit using his right hand to clumsily brace it while he flexes his left wrist backwards to clear a path to his forearm. A firm push and series of taps with the meat of his right palm against the end of the wand secures it in its temporary holster.

And then John is kicking hard upward, as vigorously as he can imagine. There are spots across his vision and he feels like his entire body is burning from the cold.

_Almost…almost…_

On his ascent, he passes the creature he had been chasing, coming within three metres. His oxygen-deprived brain perceives black hair, surprised eyes, an explosion of sliver and powder blue, a long and angular body. But it is barely more than a glance and he is rocketing past, the pressure lifting, his lungs constricting painfully, his vision nearly completely black, his headache now a migraine –

_Push it, just a little more, this pain will be all gone in a second, don’t think about it, just go!_

The Bubble-Head Charm fails just metres from the surface, but he is so very nearly there that it does not even occur to him to panic.

_Not going to die, no, not a chance, kick, goddammit, kick kick ki –_

John bursts through the barrier and gasps for breath, his extremities uselessly failing as he tries to remain above the surface. He sinks back down again, breathes in loch water and pops back to the surface in time to vomit. Then he accidentally breathes in more water, and vomits again.

He nearly truly drowns in that moment, but somehow manages to get himself into a floating position at last, probably instinct, though it is just as likely to be chance. His chest still heaves as he sucks in oxygen, but it is less frantic now.

John floats on his back like that until the sun sets, just breathing and feeling the pins and needles rampaging through his muscles as feeling returns and his headache abates, not caring for an instant that the Kelpie could be below him right now, preparing to attack.

He is alive, he is breathing. And that is all that he can process at the moment.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, John paces around his tent, agitatedly refreshing the Repelling Charm on the outer surface.

After taking the rest of yesterday evening to recover from his near-drowning, he had spent all of today searching the River Falloch and then trying around the mouth. No Kelpie. No Mer. A lot of fish and a couple of irritable eels.

In the end, day wasted.

His return to the water had been relatively uneventful, but he had been careful to surface frequently to change out the air in his Bubble-Head Charm. He prefers not to think about just how close he had come yesterday. Today had been nearly as much about continuing the search as about proving to himself that he was not unnerved by being underwater.

Treading over to his cot, John performs another unnecessary _Evanesco_ of his body. He swears he can still feel the scum from the loch water on his skin. He could definitely go for a shower.

The sound of rain pounding on the tent reminds him that there is perhaps a more natural way of achieving his means.

After all, the island _is_ abandoned.

John strips out of his robes and dumps them onto the floor. His wand remains with him, sheathed in its forearm holster. He flips the front flap open and steps out into the old greenhouse’s shattered shell.

Outside, John can hear the sound of the raindrops hitting the broken glass and the leaves above. They are dissonant sounds, one contained and sharp, the other fresh and mellow. He turns his face up, lets the rain sprinkle all over his face, feels the earth under his toes and curls them, counterproductive in his efforts to clean, but somehow it feels right, necessary.

He spreads his arms and lifts his palms, breathing deeply and fully. Petrichor is one of the scents in his personal Amortentia bouquet, but he unfortunately won’t be experiencing that smell tonight. The scent of damp earth does surface, as does a tangy rosemary smell, probably from the pine trees covering his island.

A grin quirks across John’s face. City life has nothing on this. He would love to move out here and settle and sometimes he is not entirely certain as to what keeps him in London. He could commute easily, either with Apparation or the Floo Network, but he just has not found the right spot (or job, really). Sure, there have been some rather beautiful locales he has camped out in during his hunts, but nothing that made him feel particularly like settling.

And if he moved somewhere like here, he would be all alone. John values his solitude and privacy, but he does need occasional interaction.

The creature’s curious eyes from yesterday flash through his mind. That quick look he had gotten right before his desperate surfacing fills his mind, and his imagination adds dark, flowing hair and a lean torso, ending in an exquisitely-scaled tail. Apparently his mind has decided for him that the unknown creature from before is definitely a Mer. And a rather nice looking one at that.

John feels his cock begin to harden. He opens his eyes and looks downward in the dark, wondering what has triggered this reaction, as if his cock has the answer. As if he can really see much of anything in the dark.

He reaches with his left hand (he knows better than to use the one with his wand) and grasps his hardening length. Somehow, despite all sorts of antics at Hogwarts and during Department training, he has never done anything quite like this.

It’s freeing in a deliciously indecent way. Tossing off in the rain, all exposed in the dark? Rather nice and indulgent. Rather like something that would convince him to move out here permanently.

His strokes are even and unhurried. He hasn’t had a nice, long wank in a quite some time.

The persistent precipitation dampens his other senses, until all he can focus upon is the feeling of rain on his skin and the tug of his fingers around his cock. Was it really the idea of the imagined Mer that got this all started?

That thought puts a bit of a damper on his libido. After all, he has never lusted after any beast before. His hand stills on his cock as he considers whether or not to finish the job.

But the environs are just so lovely, so unearthly. It seems rather a shame to waste them.

And then there’s the fact that he once again cheated death yesterday. Seems like something to celebrate, he should think, with a lovely orgasm in the rain.

John’s hand resumes its movement and he lets his head tilt backward. God, this is so decadent. His callouses from pickup Quidditch on the weekends are still fresh, and the rough texture of them on his cock sends a frisson of pleasure up and down his spine. He thrusts his hips out a bit and tugs on his balls, inhaling deeply and letting the breath out in a low moan.

The rain is adding a unique dimension to the experience – besides helping with a bit of slick onto his cock, the constant raindrop beats on his heated skin feel almost nurturing. Though he knows it is ludicrous, he cannot deny that there is something inclusive about this whole thing.

A spike of pleasure ploughs through John as he squeezes and twists. He lets his fingers play about the crown of his cock, hissing out between his teeth when the start of his orgasm sizzles along his nerves. John grabs at the base to delay his finish, this experience simply too good to end prematurely.

Once the rush of endorphins passes unsated, John resumes stroking.

The rain picks up, turning from a slow drizzle to a roaring downpour. John drops his chin to his chest to keep from getting a mouth-full of rainwater, since his mouth is wide open and gasping with each down stroke. With a quick light tug to his balls, he begins to fuck his hand in earnest, his mind searching for something to imagine his cock sinking into.

The image of his imaginary Mer surfaces yet again. This time, John embraces the vision, too far gone to contemplate the morality. He imagines his cock sinking into warmth between pale hipbones, mouth pressing against chilled lips, palms sliding down along smooth skin to the transition to silvery scales. His hand grips harder, imitating the pressure of his cock pressing deep into the Mer, and the pleasure begins building again.

In his mind, the Mer is gazing up at him with desperate eyes, whimpers issuing from plump, kiss-swollen lips. John pounds into him, ruthless and wild, emitting his own grunts of approval.

A series of fervent hip snaps and John’s orgasm rips through him. His toes curl into the mud as his back arches in vibrant pleasure. He releases his cock shortly after it finishes pulsing, then lets his arms drop to his sides. His entire body hums and sings, his muscles relaxed and his mind sated.

The rainfall accelerates his body’s cooling, leaving him soaked and approaching chilly in no time. The synergetic moment passed, he pulls his wand and casts a drying charm as he treads back under the greenhouse’s protection.

With a final _Tergeo_ directed at his feet, John enters his tent and heads off to bed, feeling quite self-satisfied.

\---⭐⭐⭐---

John sets up traps all along the loch’s shore and at the mouths of all seven tributaries that feed into the loch the next day. As an afterthought, he adds one more at the outflow. Using Disillusionment Charms, John conceals them from both the Kelpie and any curious Muggles. To each trap, he adds a chunk of liver acquired from the local butcher to serve as bait.

It’s actually not raining today, which makes last night’s events even more surreal under the partly-cloudy sky.

He occupies himself for the rest of the morning with outlining a progress report for Mockridge, glossing over the details of his failed baiting attempt. The final draft will require some creative wording to avoid having to attend the Departmental Safety seminar again as penalty for ‘reckless behaviour’.

Lunch is a cup of ham and lentil soup with crusty bread at a coffee shop on the western shore of the loch. John keeps to himself, but listens intently to the gossip at nearby tables. More than once he has gotten a tip off of tourists or locals chattering on about odd occurrences. Though it is not a method endorsed by the Department, John sees excluding Muggle source information as foolish. But that might have more to do with his Mum being Muggle than any sort of personal political leanings for special Muggle rights or consideration.

After lunch, he checks on the traps. The bait has been nibbled in a few places, but they are all empty. He leaves them be, thinking that an evening check will probably be required. The rest of the afternoon is spent on his broom, Disillusioned and flying high enough to avoid any Muggle attention. John searches keenly for any locations that might have been overlooked as hiding places or feeding grounds for his elusive Kelpie.

An hour before sunset, John completes another circuit of the loch. None of the inflow or shore traps have been tripped by anything other than a few large fish. He lets the fish go, since as far as he knows, Kelpies are not able to shape shift into anything smaller than a human being. Resigning himself to another wasted day, John trudges up to the outflow trap on the River Leven.

Once he Disillusions it, John sees that this trap has also been triggered. A mass of fins and scales pressed up against the side lead him to believe he has captured yet another fish, possibly two.

But then a pale arm joins the scales pushing against the opening and John immediately knows better.

John quickly transfigures the grassy vegetation around the trap into tentacles and unlocks the trap with a muttered _Colloportus._ The creature spins out of the trap in a flurry of limbs and tail, trying to flee, but John sends his transfigured tentacles after it, recapturing it easily.

Once the improvised restraints are secure, John lifts the creature to the surface.

Well over two metres of beast fights against the restraints. An impressive, silvery-blue tail flips upward and the fading sunlight catches on it, momentarily awing John with the sparkle of light over the scales. The tail features several smaller fins to either side of the creature’s narrow hips and a couple stuck on at the end. He catches sight of a slit at the apex of the hips, where another kind of creature might have external genitals, before the beast’s tail crashes back under the water’s surface, sending displacement waves into the surrounding area and startling a few small birds foraging in the weeds.

John examines the rest of the creature remaining above water. Bluish-green eyes flash from under wavy hair that is unexpectedly dark in comparison to the frost-coloured skin. Its torso is only slightly muscled, with dark nipples standing out above a tapered ribcage. There is the impression of a scar across the left bicep, and each elbow ends in a folded spiny fin. Around its neck is an ornamental silver necklace, reminiscent of the jewellery worn by the Merpeople in the Black Lake.

Anticipation and fascination rush through John as he realizes that he is looking at the creature he had chased the day before.

“Oh, God…you’re gorgeous.”

John momentarily feels badly for rendering such a spectacular creature helpless. It’s the same sort of feeling he imagines having if he ever inadvertently captured a unicorn foal.

Though, if this really is a Mer, Merpeople could hardly be considered helpless – they _had_ refused ‘Being’ classification on the grounds that it would put them in the same class as Hags and Vampires, choosing to be considered ‘Beast’ instead.

And if it is a Kelpie, then he really should not be feeling sympathy at all.

But the way that this creature is regarding him, through intelligent, almond-shaped eyes, does not seem helpless or outraged. Intrigued, maybe?

John feels a pulse of desire surge toward his groin as he realizes that the creature appears to be checking him out. Last night’s wank fantasy rises to the surface of his mind and he can easily see where he got some of the best details. The creature before him is undeniably attractive.

He licks his lips and tries to clear his mind.

John’s not a prude or anything (there are plenty of stories circulating of other Department personnel engaging in extracurricular activities with consenting Beings), it’s just that the opportunity has never presented itself. Especially not in such an attractive package.

But, he did not get to where he is in the Department by letting his cock get in the way of his good sense. Kelpies are legendary for seducing their victims with pleasurable shapes.

John looks for some of the obvious signs of shape-shifted Kelpies – water weeds in the hair, dark-coloured eyes, and strain to maintain shape throughout the body. But the creature’s hair is the only dark feature he can see, and it is a set of verdigris eyes that are gazing intently back at him, not the vacuous ones of a Kelpie. The only strain John detects is from the creature testing the transfigured tentacles’ hold.

Cautiously, slowly, John lifts his wand and returns the tentacles to their former shapes. The creature remains on its back, its neck elongated as it watches John with wary, upside-down eyes.

Then, it opens its mouth and John immediately recognizes the raspy, clicking sounds of Mermish. He had first heard it back at Hogwarts from the Merpeople of the Black Lake as they told off a gaggle of third years for using the Giant Squid as target practice for water jets.

Harsh screeching continues to fill the air, growing louder and more insistent as John tries to placate the creature. “Really, I didn’t mean it. I thought you were a Kelpie, honest.”

Well, John’s still not completely sure that this Mer is not a Kelpie. Stopping mid-rant, the creature’s eyes glance to his wand and then back, seemingly uncertain. Is it aware of his indecision?

The creature emits a burbling sound and slowly rotates its body, keeping its eyes fixed on John’s wand the entire time. John stays still, watching the water sluice off of wide, sinewy shoulders and down the creature’s back. The tip of its tail surfaces momentarily as it rotates onto its front, reminding John of a shark’s dorsal fin, adding an ominous note to the creature’s movement.

John’s reflexive hand-tightening around his wand instantly freezes the creature mid-rotation.

It produces a series of clicks and lifts its chin, as if inquiring after John’s intentions.

“Erm, I’m not going to do anything to you unless you give me reason to defend myself,” John offers, hoping his tone will be sufficient to convey his meaning.

His speech transfers the creature’s focus away from his wand and onto his face. It scans him for a moment, and then slowly finishes turning. John relaxes his fingers in attempt to appear non-threatening, but does not lower his wand.

“Ok. What now?”

More raspy screeching. John is beginning to wish he had a translator or at least knew some simple Mermish.

“I can’t understand what you’re trying to say, sorry,” he explains, shrugging and turning his right palm up to mime his uncertainty.

The creature stops speaking again. It looks away from him for the first time since emerging from the trap and upstream toward the loch. It lets out a loud chirp and then points the same direction it is looking.

John knows that the creature might be attempting to distract him so it can escape, but his curiosity wins out in the end. Keeping his wand at the ready, John quickly turns his head to look where the creature is pointing.

Backlit at the mouth of the river, standing on the water’s surface, is an enormous horse.

John immediately forgets all about the Mer. His sprints toward the Kelpie, right hand frantically searching his robes for his shrunken broom. His fingers close around the handle and he yanks it out, casting an _Engorgio_.

The Kelpie sees him coming immediately and dives underwater. It quickly moves out into the loch, and John accelerates on his broom to keep up.

The setting sun sparkles across the loch’s surface, making it difficult for John to track the Kelpie’s movements. Belatedly, John remembers to Disillusion himself and then dives to right above the surface, hoping to increase enhance his tracking ability with the closer proximity.

They zoom around the loch, John skimming across the water’s surface several times as he banks in tandem with the beast below. The Kelpie stays close to the shore the entire time – is it taunting him? It could easily dive deeper and lose him, but remains in visual range. Maybe it is trying to trick him into becoming its next meal.

Time for John to show some teeth.

John fires off one Containment Charm after another, but the Kelpie dodges each one handily. The rapidly setting sun slates the chances of capture against John. Darkness will conceal the Kelpie, and now that it knows he is after it, his chances of future capture are much lower. He needs to capture it here and now, or risk losing it completely.

His charmwork becomes more and more frantic, as does his flying. He pushes his broom to go faster and nearly flies straight into an overhanging limb in his desperation to catch the Kelpie.

The last sliver of sun disappears over the hills and John loses sight of the Kelpie for the first time during the chase. He keeps on the same flight path, desperately searching the water below him, but eventually dead ends into shore. He flies concentric loops around the last place he saw the Kelpie, but sees nothing in the foggy water.

With a disappointed sigh, John turns his broom toward his home base. Confirming that there is a Kelpie in the loch is not enough of a victory. He had wanted to catch it single-handed, with no incompetent co-workers to muck things up.

John lands on the beach, cancels the Disillusionment, shrinks his broom, and begins to head toward the greenhouse and his tent. His irritation shortens his stride and he clenches his jaw in frustration.

A loud splash from behind has him spinning on his heel, his adrenalin spiking again.

Just a few metres from the island’s shore is the Mer, floating tranquilly with its tail raised as if prepared to splash toward him.

John lets out an amused huff and lowers his wand. “You’re awfully curious.”

The Mer is once again fixated on John’s wand, as if calculating the chances of John pointing it at him. As a sign of concession, John slides his wand into his holster and then presents his empty palms to the Mer.

“See, not going to attack you.”

The Mer lets out cheerful chirp and lowers its tail.

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t sneak up on me, ok? My job makes me a bit paranoid,” John explains, as if the Mer can actually understand him.

Another positive sound from the Mer.

John smirks. It is almost as if are actually communicating. “Well, sorry about before and, uh, good to meet you, I suppose. Night.”

Then John turns and walks back toward his tent, certain he will not find the Mer there in the morning.

 


End file.
